About Friendship, Lost and Alcohol
by MytimelordnameisTheShipper
Summary: Sherlock fanfic, post-reichenbach. Sherlock is leaving London, and go down into sadness which he tries to forget with alcohol. May contain bad language.


Sherlock was watching John from a distance at the grave yard. He heard all of John's speech, and he was upset. He was upset that he could never talk to John again. That John will never see his face again. And he wanted John to know that he is alive so bad. He wanted John to be happy again. He saw John's sadness; but he couldn't do anything about it. So he left the grave yard, a tear dropping down his face.

Sherlock was now in a pub. In Scotland. His hair was now bright red. He went off the grid completely. He moved himself away from London, and to Edinborough, Scotland. He changed his name to Liam Smith, found a job, and basically, settled down. But he wasn't happy. He was bored out of his mind. The most interesting thing he did in the past 2 months was learning to talk in a Scottish accent. And he did that in a day.  
He missed John so much. He missed 221B Baker Street. He missed Mrs. Hudson. He missed Lestrade. For god's sake, he even missed Anderson and Mycroft. He wanted to go back, but he couldn't. If he would, they would die. And he just couldn't. So all he could do was sit in that pub, and say "Can I have another vodka shot, please?"

Sherlock sat down in his flat. He held the needle, and slowly brought it closer to his hand. He was about to put it in, as someone knocked on the door. "Liam!" Someone shouted in the other side. "If you don't want to be late, we need to go now!" The guy shouted at the other side. "Fine! Coming!" Sherlock shouted. He put on a nice shirt, tied his shoe and opened the door. "Let's go."

"You need to be more careful, Liam. If the school will find out that you do drugs, you might get fired."  
"They won't find out, James." Sherlock said as he took another inhale from the rolled up weed he was smoking.  
"Watch yourself man. You need to be more careful. There are needles all over your flat. If that sniper dog, McGraw, walks in there, you'll be a dead man." James said slowly as Sherlock took another inhale.  
"Pass the vodka." He said quietly. He took a sip straight from the bottle. "Better." He said. The memory of John was slightly fading. And then he drank some more. He felt blurry, but now John came back to his mind. So he drank some more. And everything became very blurry. He saw John again. "One more miracle, Sherlock. Don't. Be. Dead." He drank the entire bottle, and whispered, "I'm not dead John. I'm right here." He smiled.  
"What are you talking about?" James's voice became blurry and dim, and Sherlock passed out on the floor in James's flat.

He woke up at 8:25. "Shit!" He shouted, and then held his ears. He was defiantly hanged-over. He rubbed his temples. His eyes were burning. How much vodka he drank last night? He got dressed quickly, and left the flat.  
"Good morning class." Sherlock said in a whisper. His head and eyes were aching. "Good morning Mr. Smith." The class answered together. Sherlock held his head in his arms, and with a small hand gesture he told the class to sit down. "You know what? Just rehearse on our last subject. I'll write the pages on the board." Sherlock said and wrote down a few pages on the board. After he was finished, he sat down near his desk and held his head in his hands.

It was finally time for break, and Sherlock packed his things and left to the staff room. He made himself some tea, and couldn't help thinking about John again. John's tea was perfect. Not too warm, not too cold. He looked around, checked that no one looked, and took a small, silver bottle out of his jacket. He poured the liquid into his tea, and took a sip. Perfect. He felt the vodka going down his throat.

It has been 6 months, 15 days and 4 hours since the last time he saw John, and he missed him so bad. He was bored out of his mind. He had some exams to check, but they were all dull. He picked up his phone and called James. "Can you come over?" He asked. "And bring a bottle of vodka on your way?" James sighed over the phone. "Liam, you need to stop drinking." Sherlock smiled. "It's not the night to do that. Now come over."  
Half hour later James was in his flat with a bottle. "Great." Sherlock smiled.  
"Why do you drink?" James asked, completely out of the blue.  
"Why do you never drink?" Sherlock asked back.  
"I asked first."  
"Fine." Sherlock smiled. "Because it is tasty and I love it."  
"That is not the real reason."  
"Obliviously."  
"So what is the real reason?"  
"What do you think? I'm a teacher. It is one of the world's dullest jobs. My life is a big boredom. Now answer my question. Why do you neverdrink?" Sherlock said, and took a sip from his glass.  
"Because I choose not to drink. This is dangerous. Too much and you are dead. Too much and you get addicted." James said. "Same in drugs."

"Come on, why don't you want to go to London?" James said as he tried catching up with the taller man.  
"Because. Too many memories." Sherlock said. The truth was that he wanted to go to London. Very much. But it was risky. He might run into John. His hair was different; but John is smart. And even if he will just suspect, he will come to ask. And John would recognize his voice.  
"Liam, please, just for the weekend. Me, you and Sam." James said, almost begging.  
"Fine. Just for the weekend." Sherlock said.  
James smiled and took out his phone. "Sam! Smith will join us."

Sherlock was at a pub. It was a small one, so that there will be zero chance of someone he knows coming in. It was his 14th shot of vodka. London brought so much back to him. So many memories. Someone came in and sat next to him. "I don't recall you being the type who drinks vodka, brother dear." Sherlock rolled his eyes and ordered 2 more drinks. "Nice of you to order me a drink." Mycroft said. "It's not for you. I need to be very drunk to talk to you." Sherlock said in his baritone voice and quickly drank both of his drinks. "Seems like you claimed a new accent. And a new hair." Mycroft said. "Seems like you gained some weight." Sherlock replied. He lifted his head and looked at Mycroft's eyes.  
"Now, what do you want?" Sherlock said, lowering his eyes back to his drink.  
"Heard you are back in town. Thought I might check up on you."  
"How's John?" Sherlock said harshly.  
"Took it a bit hard. He is better now, though. Lestrade giving him easy cases to solve and he work at the hospital as well."  
"He works at St. Bart's?" Sherlock asked, slightly surprised.  
"Yes, he is. I have no idea why." Mycroft said.  
"And he is safe?" Sherlock asked, not letting any emotion slip out of him.  
"Yes." Mycroft answered shortly.  
"Good. If something will happen to him, I'm coming after you." He said harshly, and lifted his eyes of his drink. His eyes were red, and he had bags under his eyes. Mycroft felt something inside him just breaking down. Sherlock ordered another drink, but Mycroft lifted his umbrellaand stopped his brother's arm. "What are you doing?" Sherlock burst and got up his seat. "You drank enough." Mycroft pushed his brother slightly forward, and they exited the pub. He took Sherlock into a small alleynearby. He made sure that no one could see them, and reached over to Sherlock, pulling him into a tight hug. To his surprise, Sherlock didn't moved back immediately like he always did. He hugged him back, even tighter. Mycroft couldn't remember a time that his brother really hugged someone. Mycroft moved his hand into Sherlock's soft curls, and Sherlock did nothing against it. He just stood there, hugging him tight.  
"Thought you might be embarrassed to do this in the pub." Mycroft said, and pulled away. "You were right." Sherlock said. "Come, I'll give you a ride." Mycroft said, and held his very drunk brother close to him.

Sherlock woke up in a big room, light pouring from the big windows. His head was aching, and his eyes burned from the light. He certainly remembered that this is not his hotel room. The bed was big, with silver colored sheets. He was in a blue pyjama, certainly not what he was wearing last night. He got up and stood in the middle of the big room, and spotted a chair with a black dressing gown on it. Sherlock stepped closer, and saw a note on the chair. 'Put it on.' Sherlock sighed. Mycroft.

Sherlock frowned. He put the gown on and opened the door. He walked down the hall, and reached an even more lightened room. Sherlock shouted in pain. His eyes were burning. "Glad you are up." Mycroft said and folded the paper on the table. "Sit down." He said and gestured the chair with his hand. Sherlock pulled the chair loudly and sat down. After a moment of silence, Sherlock started talking. "I only sat down because..." Mycroft cut him in the middle of his sentence. "I know that you didn't sit down because I told you, you sat down because you wanted so." Sherlock frowned. "Now, brother, what would you like to eat?" Mycroft asked him. "I am not hungry, I don't want to eat. And even if I wanted to eat, I wouldn't have chosen cake, like you just ate. Who eat cake in the morning?" Sherlock kept frowning. "It is 4 in the after-noon, Sherlock." Mycroft said, defending himself.  
"I was really drunk last night, didn't I?" Sherlock asked, slightly ashamed.  
"Yes. Now, what would you like to eat?" Mycroft asked again.  
" I am not hungry." Sherlock stated.  
"You need to eat."  
"I don't."  
"Alright. I'll just do what I want, and you will eat it." Mycroft said, andwent on making Sherlock's food.  
"Mycroft, this is not the clothes I was in yesterday." Sherlock said out of the blue.  
"Nice deduction skills." Mycroft mocked him.  
"I'm serious." Sherlock said. "Why did you change my clothes?"  
"I didn't want you to go to sleep with those dirty clothes on you." Mycroft said.  
Sherlock pulled his pyjamas bottom and looked down frowning. "Even my underwear?"  
"Well, you threw up on them, so I had to change them. Trust me, it wasn't a pleasure." Mycroft said. He took the plate with the toast on it and the cup of tea and placed it in front of his younger brother. "Now, eat." He ordered.  
"I told you, I am not hungry." Sherlock said angrily.  
"I don't care." Mycroft replied.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a bite from his toast. "I don't like that jam."  
"I told you I would do whatever I want, and you will eat it, like it or not." Mycroft said in a very calm tone. Sherlock took another bite from his toast. Mycroft ruffled Sherlock's curls. "Good boy." He said, and went back to his seat to finish his cake. 5 minutes later, Sherlock finished his toast. Mycroft lifted his eyes from the paper. "Feeling better?" He asked. "No." Sherlock answered. In fact, he was feeling better, but he didn't want Mycroft knowing. Mycroft got up and picked up Sherlock's plate. "Finish your tea." Sherlock didn't argue; he knew it was hopeless. He drank his tea quickly. "Happy?" Sherlock asked with a frown on his face.Mycroft smiled. "Yes." He said, and put the plate and the mug in the kitchen sink.

"Why did you bring me here? You could have just put me in 2... My hotel." He corrected himself. He was about to say 221b Baker Street. But it was no longer his home.  
"I didn't know the address." Mycroft said simply.  
"Liar."  
"I didn't want to leave you like that. You were a mess."  
"Did you thought that maybe I am with people, and that they might be worried?"  
"Yes. I called him. Told him I know you since you were born, and that you were very drunk so I took you to my place. No lies in that." Mycroft said. 'Sadly, No lies in that.' Sherlock thought to himself.  
"He will be here in 10 minutes or so. I don't think you need a shower, considering the fact that I had to give you one last night; but you might want to change your clothes." Mycroft continued, looking at Sherlock.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and slowly opened them. "You gave me a shower?"  
"I had to." Mycroft smiled. "You were covered in vomit."  
"I don't have clothes here." Sherlock protested.  
"Don't worry." Mycroft said, and went to another room. He came back with a small bag. "All I could save was those." He said to him.  
"Save?" Sherlock asked.  
"John tried to kill himself. He burnt down the flat."  
"He tried to kill himself?"  
"A few times."  
Sherlock took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. John tried to kill himself. John Watson tried to kill himself because of him. He felt so bad. But he did what he done for John. "Hey, he is better now." Mycroft's voice took him out of his thoughts. He noticed his eyes were tearing. He opened the bag. His purple shirt was there, and his black trousers. They were folded neatly; Mycroft's work, of course. "Thank you." He said. He picked his purple shirt and smelled it. It smelled like John.

Five minutes later he was all dressed up. James knocked the door, and Mycroft went to open it. Sherlock was sitting alone in Mycroft's living room. When he thought of it, it was his first time in his brother's flat. He was never here before; or in any other flat Mycroft might have owned before.  
"Liam! Where were you? You just disappeared last night!" James came into the room, happy and concerned at the same time.  
"Went for a drink." Sherlock answered.  
"More like 17." Mycroft smirked.  
"You need to stop that. I told you already, if the school hears about it, you'll get fired." James said, sitting next to him.  
"I told you, I'll stop when we'll get back to Scotland." Sherlock said.  
"Good. Now let's get back to the hotel." James said and got up. "Thank you very much." He turned to Mycroft. "I hope he didn't start acting like a 5 year old again."  
Mycroft smiled. "It was my pleasure." He turned to Sherlock. "Nice seeing you, Liam. Stay in touch." Sherlock nodded, and he and James went back to the hotel.

It was his last night in London. James and Sam went out to see the city one last time, and Sherlock stayed in the hotel alone, with his bottle of vodka. He didn't want to be seen again; meeting Mycroft was more than enough. So he just stayed inside the small room, finishing the bottle to its drops.  
He didn't get the effect he wanted. John didn't leave his mind. John tried to kill himself. Mycroft's words were buzzing in his head. It was probably the alcohol speaking, but he knew what he needed to do. He left his hotel room and hailed a cab. "221B Baker Street." He said to the driver.

The cab pulled out of the familiar building. Sherlock paid the cabbie, and got closer to the door. He smiled to himself; he missed that place. He quickly picked the lock and entered. The familiar smell he loved was all over the air. He went upstairs and picked the lock. He opened the flat door; it looked... different. It was defiantly cleaner, but it looked almost as if he just left it. He could have seen that everything was different, which made sense, because Mycroft said the flat was burnt down. His violin, which John probably saved, was on an armchair, very familiar to the old one, but this armchair was new. Some of his experiments were still on the kitchen table, some kind of memory of him. He opened the fridge door and smiled to himself. John kept the body parts.

He pulled himself and walked to his old bedroom. Obliviously, John was sleeping in there. He looked at his blond doctor. He looked so peaceful in his sleep. Sherlock walked over and placed his hand over the blonde'sshoulder. "John." He whispered. "Wake up."

John made a humming noise and slowly opened his eyes. "Sh...Sherlock? What are you doing here?"  
"I'm not dead, John!" He said pulling John up from his bed.  
John yawned. "Sherlock, are you drun-" John couldn't finish his sentence before something hit him in his back. John fell bleeding to the floor. "John?" Sherlock chuckled. "John?" He said in a more serious tone. Sherlock ran downstairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted. He burst into her flat, only to find her bleeding on the floor. Sherlock was panicking. He ran back upstairs to John and called Lestrade. "Hello?" Lestrade answered sleepily to phone. "Lestrade! John was shot. And Mrs. Hudson as well. Get someone!" Sherlock shouted to the phone. "Sherlock? Is that-" Sherlock heard a loud noise, and no matter how laud he shouted, no one answered.  
He threw the phone to the side. He looked at John, his dead John, and moved a shaky hand over his hair. "Goodbye John. For the very last time." He said quietly, right before he passed out beside him.


End file.
